Jenny looked over the edge of the dam. The brownish, weathered concrete of the Works

Progress era structure chipped and crumbled as she ran her hand over it. Rodney stood a few feet

away, leaning lazily against the cyclone gate that kept pedestrians from exploring any farther.

     They were both young, plain, and bored. And walking on Buchanan Dam was what the

young, plain, and bored did in the middle of the night.

     They took bread and threw it into the water. They heard the giant catfish that stayed close

to the walls surface to gobble it up. They took quick, immature gulps from a flask of rye they had

stolen somewhere to stave off the blackness around them and the eerie clapping of waves against

the dam.

     They looked at the lights of the lake houses where the rich kids lived. Miles across the

dark water, the houses twinkled like the stars that Jenny and Rodney could never imagine

visiting.

     The quiet was broken when one house, supernova like, lit up more than the others.

Laughter and screams shot across the empty expanse, echoing off the reservoir, the dam, and the

reservoir again.

     Rodney stiffened and Jenny lit a cigarette. Both stared at the lights.

     They had spent their whole lives with these people. These people had always been on top,

had won the crown, gone on the trips, owned the car. These people had never spoke to them, had

never seen where they live, had never seen the back of a hand, never.

     “One of these nights we will be in that house,” they whispered, “that very one.” The

sounds of splashing and music burrowed into their chests. “We will be in that very house and we

will fucking terrorize them.”